Absence Makes The Heart Grow
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Sherlock is going away to his parents for Christmas. John secretly doesn't want him to. A missing scene from "If I Could Only". No slash (in a manner of speaking). Just romance and a little bit of masturbation in public. Uni lock. Student!Lock and Teacher!John-COMPLETE


**This can be read as a standalone because this makes sense even as a standalone. But you can read the first part to gain more insight into the nature of their. . . relationship?**

**Again, as an apology for those of the sweet people who're still waiting for chapter 19 of If I Could Only.**

* * *

><p>19th December 2014, 12:35 pm<p>

Christmas is coming. John has never been more excited for Christmas in his whole life-at the thought that he'll finally get to spend some time away from the pressure and the students of St. Bart's. John throws a cheerful wave at his departing colleague and begins to pile his various papers, books, and other detritus from his desk. It's the last Friday of the semester, and while he didn't need to completely clear out his office, he'd rather start spring semester with a fresh workspace. He's got to stay one day more than the students have to, but it's alright.

He tries his best not to whistle as he goes down the corridor. He comes across a lecture theatre and catches sight of a tall, lanky figure wrapped around a ridiculously small desk for him, pen in his mouth and looking like he was bored to death. A couple of other students are cheating from his paper easily, and he's letting them, seeing as he has nothing better to do. John feels a stab of sympathy for him.

Suddenly, Holmes spots John and sits up straight, the pen falling from his mouth and on to the ground as it falls open unconsciously, just a little. The other students let out a quiet groan and turn away just as they see out of the corner of their eyes that the invigilator is on alert again after hearing the sound. John doesn't know what has him rooted to the spot, having eyesex with Holmes right in the middle of the latter's examination. The beginnings of a smirk form on his face but doesn't become that endearing half-smile which he gives John because the invigilator has already reached him and Holmes looks like he is telling her very animatedly about the fact that he has completed the paper half an hour ago and she's still not letting him leave the exam hall.

John backs away so that nobody sees him, and goes to a spot where he can see Holmes but Holmes can't see him.

When the teacher decides that it'd be better to go back to whatever she had been doing—playing Bubble Witch Saga 3—Holmes looks around the corner for him again. John can see his face falling.

John's heart gives an odd flutter at that. He tries to stifle the warm feeling that creeps up into his heart and walks away.

He doesn't want Sherlock, he tells himself, and then he corrects himself.

He doesn't want Holmes.

* * *

><p>"Professor Watson!"<p>

John freezes at the voice, or rather due to the knowledge that the boy to whom the voice belongs is -

"May I speak with you?"

John turns around slowly after making sure that he has a stony face and a frown line on his forehead, "Yes?"

Sometimes he looks at Holmes and wonders—is that what geniuses of today really look like, because John's pretty sure that back when he was in university, the class topper always wore a pair of thickset glasses, a proper bookbag in spite of spilling books out in every direction, bloodshot eyes rimmed with dark circles, spine bent downwards, rounded shoulders, perfectly combed hair, clean-cut with cardigans and shirts starched stiff against the sepia background of the 1960s even if colour television had arrived back then.

Holmes, for starters, doesn't wear glasses. His hair is—weird-ish. When John saw him for the first time, he had short hair, and then it grew into potentially robust curls which were sacrificed a few weeks ago again in the name of convenience. He wears shirts, sometimes tucked in and sometimes not tucked in, under a jumper and usually jeans. He only has three bottles of water in his bookbag, like dehydration is a crime for him, a notebook which never seems to end and a pen which never needs refilling. Sometimes he has a few assortment of heavy textbooks that have no relation whatsoever with what he is supposed to study.

Outwardly, he looks like any normal bloke should.

"I finally completed my lab assignment notebook," he says happily, "Would you grade it for me?"

John shakes his head, "You know there's no point, Mr. Holmes. The due date's gone. You're not getting marks for this anymore—"

"I know," he says, extending the notebook, "but still. For me."

John swallows. Holmes really knows how to manipulate him."Alright," takes the notebook, "I'll return it to you," shows him the notebook, "on reopening day. Try and do your lab-record properly. It carries marks."

"Why can't you just grade it now?"

"Because I have other _more_ important work to do."

"No you don't. I'm coming to the lab with you."

John is all attention now, but that doesn't show on his face. Part of being a professor is being able to suppress the immediate micro-expressions that come to you. "No, you're not."

"But I need _improvement_." Sherlock protests, "I have experiments to conduct."

"No you don't," John points out, "you make everything an experiment just because it's the most convenient excuse!"

Sherlock smirks and John gives in.

"Alright then," he waves a defeated hand, "come on."

* * *

><p>John's used to attention; hell, he's had many women fall for him and he has himself fallen for many. It seems like being a PhD can somehow be a turn-on for women, and John doesn't know why. Maybe because they think that PhDs are still virgins somehow, or because rumour has it that they really put in the hours.<p>

He's just never been used to so much attention from a man.

He's never savoured it more.

Holmes confuses him—and John is never good with things that don't really have a factual base or are things that lie in the realm of the unknown. Holmes is that. Full stop.

John is used to students, having taught the worst ones during his PhD years, where kids actually brought eggs to throw at him because they got wind that he was only a student, not really a teacher back then. He's used to girls following him not-so-discreetly in groups of three or four, giggling behind his back and making him wonder if the price tag of his shirt is sticking out somewhere. He's used to his time being wasted after he really wants to get away from the aforementioned class by girls who fight to get into the question-asking circle.

He's used to hearing "eye candy", "man candy", "Professor Johnny" (that one makes him feel like a porn star) and all sorts of nicknames. Attention is a laughably mild tag for what John manages to attract from the female students, who are in majority when it comes to Life Sciences. He's used to attention, and it doesn't matter to him.

But the thing is, somehow, the attention that Holmes gives him does matter, and John can't understand why. After all, a student is a student, no matter who the attention is from. John might've been able to rationalise it down to his sexuality only if Holmes was a girl—a really attractive girl, because Holmes is not half-bad looking after all. Oh, who is John kidding? Holmes is the epitome of geek sexiness—but it's not just that.

There's more.

Holmes is the sort of boy who can make you hate and love teaching at the same time. When you tell him a new thing, you see the sort of light in his eyes that makes you feel worthy, that makes all those years of drudgery of studying through late nights for your PhD theses feel useful. And then you want to study more, just because you want to tell him more, want to see that in his eyes again.

And when you tell him something that he already knows—which happens 99.99% of the time—he'll treat you like the scum of his shoes, question your ability as a teacher and many other things.

But once Holmes decides that yes, I am going to screw this teacher's life, he begins to flirt. John is used to shameless flirting, but somehow it's different. Holmes gives him the eyes in the cafeteria, in the shared glances, makes sure that John knows and feels uncomfortable when he orders the same thing that John does. Almost a sadist.

And then the infamous Mondays. Holmes stays back, and it's really not John's fault that he's curious, thinking, thinking, glancing, not-able-to-read-the-papers-that's-in-front-of-him. He can't pin it down to physical attraction; John isn't gay. He can't pin it down to mental attraction; otherwise he shouldn't feel anything different when he gazes at Holmes, except for pure admiration.

What is it?

All he knows is that it isn't right, ethically and in a million other ways, to let a student take such liberties with him. It's wrong on so many footings, that he's treating his moments with a man—a boy actually, because Holmes is only 19, whereas John is approaching his 29th year—who is his student, like that, like they're the breath of his life.

But when Holmes comes to his lectures on Mondays, right after recess and then when he stays for another hour, it takes all of John's strength to stay in his chair and not go over to Holmes, out of curiosity, out of the need for the touch of his hands, because that's as far as they've gone. Even if no one's there in the class and even if Holmes has assured him that he's snipped the CCTV camera cables that relay the footage of John's classroom to the main control room, John keeps himself in his chair because _it isn't right._

But John can't resist him all the time. Hell, John can never resist him for long. And even if he does, Holmes is a manipulative little shit, makes him feel like he's hurt his feelings by adopting that infuriatingly genuine kicked-puppy face and makes him the guilty party when John tells Holmes that he really needs to go away and he really needs to stop texting or calling his mobile and that he's playing with both their lives.

Nevertheless, Mondays and Thursdays are something that John looks forward to all the time without being conscious of it. But more of Mondays, because on Mondays, he and Sherlock are alone in the classroom. On Thursdays, there's one theory class followed by the lab class.

All they do is bicker and fight and argue about seemingly insignificant things. Sherlock flirts—a lot—and John refrains from flirting back but anything he says is easily twisted as an innuendo that somehow implies that John wants him when he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He's straight as a cane. But Holmes does that all the time, picks his words, takes them apart and twists and dissects them to make it sound like something that he didn't explicitly word but is nonetheless true.

Nothing more. Nothing else.

John sometimes tries not to dwell on the fact that Sherlock has never really made a move on him that actually counts as a move—like slamming him against the board and kissing him senseless or something extreme like that. Not that he wants Sherlock to do that, of course. John's actually sort of afraid that Sherlock might crack up and do something like that one of these days, because slowly, his flirting is starting to climb up a notch.

John isn't interested in him. Tries hard not to be.

* * *

><p>10th November, 2014. 3:43 pm<p>

Sherlock's told him that he's going to write a monograph on the identification of tobacco ashes. He's, by far, analysed over two hundred of them, and he can easily tell the difference between a Pall Mall and a Trichinopoly by a single glance.

"Tobacco ashes?"John looks up from his papers to look disbelievingly at Sherlock from over the tops of his glasses from under lowered lashes, "That's your new . . . project?"

"Project?"Sherlock scoffs, as he looks up from his phone, and John has confiscated it so many times that he hardly has the count."Why does everything have to be strictly academic with you, professor?"

"I don't see the point otherwise. Even if it were academic, I doubt it'll be considered as something to be looked at."

Sherlock rests his phone on the desk and leans back in his chair, looking a little miffed. Sometimes John wonders if Holmes is just messing around with him, because in times like these, Holmes looks at John as if they are doing nothing which they need to hide from the world. Because they aren't. Only once they had done something that could've been classified as scandalous in the Victorian-era, and that was something as simple as wrapping their fingers together in the lab.

John still remembers how Sherlock had seeped into every inch of him, the rich musky scent of him. The closeness had been intoxicating, and John had almost forgotten that there were other students in front of them, ready to tear them apart if they saw what was going on in the back of the lab.

John had forgotten that he wasn't gay.

Still, even talking to Holmes now-a-days seems like utter blasphemy. Because whereas their conversation might sound like normal to any outsider, Sherlock somehow peppers it with the inside jokes that they've shared in the past, stupid things, really stupid and small things, like their time during the annual technical festival of the university—_Scintillations_—or that unfortunate incident with the radio in Sherlock's car.

Sometimes, John really feels like a character out of Jane Eyre.

"I have a life beyond university too, you know, "Sherlock says, "unlike you might believe. I'm not really studious."

John stares at him for the duration of two blinks and then nods stiffly, taking off his glasses and setting them on the desk. He tries not to feel stung that he isn't a part of Holmes' life outside St. Bart's, but then that's his own fault. Professors aren't a part of their students' lives outside university. It's not right.

"Of course you're not. That's why you're studying tobacco."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, "What are you trying to say?"

"What're you going to do something with as insignificant as ashes?"John asks.

"I appreciate the value of minutiae, of small things, "Sherlock mutters, just audible to John."Don't you?"

John does. Appreciates, cherishes even. All the small moments, all his smartarse punch lines, but he doesn't reveal that. Because he isn't interested.

"You make it sound like some research thesis publication . . . monograph. Sounds scientific."

There's a pause, after which Sherlock begins carefully, "If I write a paper in which I enumerate different types of tobacco ashes, would you read it?"

John doesn't reply. His face is stony, betraying no emotion. He simply wears his glasses back like a screen.

* * *

><p>19th December, 2014, 6:30 pm<p>

When Sherlock meets his eye, he gives him the smile which makes John's stomach do flip flops, and John knows that he knows that John's thinking about him. Of course, he knows. Holmes knows everything, like it's all oh-so-transparent to him.

Whenever Molly isn't there with Sherlock and when it's Sherlock's turn—because he and Molly take it in turns to carpool—he offers John a lift. During winter, it proves to be a boon. John makes a vague excuse like he has to get some beans and what not, but ultimately he ties the seatbelt around himself. Conversation is extremely inhibited, even after knowing each other for more than four months. They have to rely on their inside jokes to initiate one.

"Get in the car," Sherlock insists, poking his head out of the window and John keeps walking, trying to avoid him even if Sherlock is the only thing he's thinking about right now. So much that he can't even remember how to walk properly.

"I'm taking the bus, Mr. Holmes," John doesn't realise he's swinging his arms with his legs instead of opposite them. He pauses and catches himself when Sherlock cocks his left eyebrow at his walking.

"You'll reach faster by car."

"I've got to . . . go to Sainsbury's." It's the lamest excuse ever; nevertheless John is ready to take it. Anything not to sit beside Sherlock for twenty whole minutes, "I'm out of milk."

"You're a man who buys in excess, you're in the habit of stocking things," Sherlock eyes something near his collar, "I can see it in the knees of your trousers clearly. You can't be out of milk."

"Well, I am," John can't understand how his trousers are telling Sherlock that he always buys in excess, but then he can't understand half the deductions that Sherlock throws at him, "You're wrong."

"I'm not."

"Go on then," and at this point, Sherlock has slowed down so that he's driving the car at John's walking speed, "Tell me how you got that."

Sherlock throws open the door to his car, "Get in and I'll tell you."

John doesn't stay in the University Faculty housing facilities. He likes the personal touch of home. Sherlock's never asked him why, even if such things seem to puzzle him.

"Mr. Holmes, seriously, stop it—" He begins sternly but he comes to a stuttering stop when he hears the noise of footsteps echoing in the carpark. John lunges for cover behind the bonnet of Sherlock's car. No one should see them together, moreover talking (and flirting) in the car park. His heart is bouncing up and down his chest and every bone in his body trembles from the impact.

"Alone again, Holmes?" Comes out a sneering voice. John has to ignore every fibre in his body telling him to stand up and defend Sherlock, but then Sherlock is extremely adept at defending himself and standing his own ground, "I don't see your sidekick anywhere."

"Don't be an idiot, Anderson," Sherlock snaps, sounding clearly irritated that someone interrupted John and him, "I am accompanied by your miserable presence now. I thought you were deaf; I didn't know you were blind as well."

John is starting to have pins and needles in his knees as he crouches disgracefully, and hopes that Anderson won't come in his direction. If Anderson saw him here, he'd misinterpret it and make a big reveal that Sherlock is being accorded favouritism or something ridiculous like that.

After a couple of minutes, when John can hear the car receding, he rises from his crouched position, brushing the dust off proudly. Sherlock resists the temptation to smirk.

"Someone will see," John has found the perfect excuse, "me with you in your car."

"Don't be ridiculous, _professor_," Sherlock simpers, "I'm the last person people want to set their eyes upon."

John exhales a sigh; nevertheless, he gets in, his entire body burning with anticipation for something that is obviously not going to happen; because he's not going to let it happen. Sherlock reaches to turn the radio on, smirking naughtily.

"Don't you dare," John orders strictly, the twitch at the corner of his lips betraying his demeanour.

"Make me, professor," Sherlock says simply, and switches the radio on. John feels like a kinky bastard for liking it so much, the way Sherlock's deep voice calls him 'professor'. Thankfully, it's some oldie Rolling Stones' song that's playing, not some teacher/student song. John smirks triumphantly as Sherlock impatiently surfs through every single channel.

"It's not always _Hot for the Teacher_ playing on the radio, Mr. Holmes," John reaches out to pat his thigh and then he realises what he is about to do.

"Sherlock, please," he insists with a steely glitter in his eyes.

"Okay, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock shuts the radio off and turns on the engine, sighing exasperatedly. John remembers that sigh too; the last time he'd heard it was when they had been on a date. No, it wasn't a _date_ date. It was a "study" date in Angelo's cosy Italian restaurant, meant as a revision before the mid sems exams—John knows it's crazy—which had been a week away back then but Holmes had been least interested, least bothered.

Apart from that, their conversation is extremely limited, extremely awkward. It always is. Their time together always has 39.56% silence and 5.43% conversation, as Sherlock had once informed him. John had told him that they were still missing 55.01% according to Sherlock's calculations.

Sherlock had said, with a devilish smirk, that the rest of the time was spent by John staring at Sherlock.

John had chosen to clear his throat pointedly and to escape out of his lecture room with an excuse to get some Coke and with whatever remained of his dignity.

He doesn't want Sherlock.

John looks around at the insides of the small car. He's still not taken his glasses off, even if he doesn't need them. He wears them like some sort of battle armour, like if he wears them, he'll somehow be immune to Sherlock and his mind games.

Usually Sherlock is the one who begins the talk. Today, by usual standards, he's unnaturally quiet. John doesn't like him quiet.

"How was your exam, then?"John asks, not able to keep himself. But there's always a sense of reclusion near Sherlock; he doesn't know why.

"Bad," he growls after sometime, "I wrote nothing, happy?"

John doesn't roll his eyes, because he never does that."I'm not joking, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh sorry, mummy. Want to cook my breakfast and do my laundry too?"

John shakes his head exasperatedly, "Why're you being such a dick today?"

There's a pause, a very long pause. John's starting to feel unnerved at the silence. Then—

"Holidays are from tomorrow, John."

Sherlock tries to sound preoccupied, but John can tell even if he can't hear anxiety in his voice. Their eyes meet across the dashboard mirror. John blinks and looks away. He doesn't bother to tell Sherlock that he doesn't appreciate being called by his first name as Sherlock is his student and he his professor.

He's given the Christmas holidays a thought, even though he hasn't mentioned it to him and even if Sherlock didn't mention it to him all these days.

He won't be able to see Sherlock as much as he does in university. He might not be able to see Sherlock at all even if he's only half an hour away, in London, in Baker Street, only five or so stations away. Not that it matters to him all that much. For example, he won't be able to see Ms. Hooper or Mr. Anderson or Mr. Powers or even a hundred others all that much too, and Sherlock's not anything special, is he?

"Oh, so you're giving me a top-up to last me for the holidays, are you?"

But then, knowing Sherlock, John will end up seeing him. John knows that, finds his comfort in that. He's forgotten how it used to be, he doesn't know how university and teaching would be without Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't reply."That's not what I was implying."

"Oh," John says, prompting. He is taut as a string, in the anticipation of what Sherlock is going to say to him. His first words—holidays begin from tomorrow—have commanded John's attention. Suddenly the air around them has become really thick and charged.

"Holidays begin tomorrow, John."

"Yeah."

"Because of Christmas."

So they were going to play the game of who surrendered first. Alright. . .

"Yeah."

"And New Year too."

John looks sideways. Sherlock's attention is on the road; John's attention is on the Adam's apple bobbing in Sherlock's pale throat. John forces his eyes away, but there's no point to. Sherlock already knows, Sherlock always knows. John never pauses to think that he might sometimes be overestimating Sherlock's genius. Even Sherlock has told him that once—

_"And you think I'd know?"Sherlock had cried out when John realised that Sherlock didn't know that England didn't have a King._

_"Of course," John had cried out equally shrilly."You know everything!"_

_"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, professor," he drawled._

_I was not being sarcastic," John had said, "did you really not know that we don't have a King?"_

_Sherlock had huffed back into his chair, looking down at his lap silently. After almost ten minutes, he had risen from his reverie and said quietly, "I'm not God, John. I can't know everything."_

_Needless to say, John had not replied back. Sherlock could be unintentionally humble sometimes._

"And New Year too," John repeats.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, taking a sharp turn. John wants to point out that one of these days Sherlock might end up causing a pileup or something.

"Yes."

"Yup."

John's game falls short. If he doesn't reply, he'll be the loser, and as for replying, there's only one thing to say, except for continuing the game of saying "yes" like children and delaying the inevitable. Fine, he thinks, he can never beat Sherlock anyway. After a long, long pause—

"So, what are you going to do during the vacations?"John had aimed for casual but his voice comes out high and tight and he squeezes his eyes shut. He waits for the cheeky replies, the flirting and the innuendos. Sherlock declaring that he'll gatecrash John's flat everyday or something drastic like that. His heart is pounding against his ribs, as if he has just asked Sherlock out.

"Oh. . ."Sherlock looks troubled, distracted, and instead of a wink, all John gets is a response, "I doubt you'd care, professor. My mother wants me back in Lincolnshire for Christmas. And Molly too. I owe my brother this Christmas, so. . ." he trails away.

John bites the insides of his cheeks, feeling his stomach drop back into the pit. It never struck him that Sherlock might have a family. He didn't know that Sherlock's parents stayed in Lincolnshire. He didn't even know that Sherlock had a brother. How would they react when they found out about Sherlock and him? Not that there is such a thing as Sherlock and him.

Suddenly, he's extremely jealous of Ms. Hooper.

* * *

><p>19th December, 2014. 7:01 pm<p>

Sherlock drops him off at his flat, saying a tenderer goodbye than usual, which is only the seventh time he has bid John goodbye. John doesn't watch him drive away because he might be tempted to call him back.

Once he drops his bag neatly on the centre table of his sitting room, he heaves himself to the sofa and collapses in a heap of skin and bones. Of course, John should've known that he was going to have to spend Christmas alone with Clara probably, because Harry is in rehab. He consoles himself by thinking that Clara is going to have a worse time staying all by herself without Harry.

Sherlock hadn't even told him. That's what stings John the most, even though it's completely irrational of him to expect so, but when was he going to actually tell John that he wasn't going to be there for Christmas, that he was going to leave? After he actually left? The holidays are starting tomorrow, and if John hadn't asked him, Sherlock would probably not have told him at all.

How could Sherlock do this? How could he? After Sherlock had told him that he would leave university to be with John if it was only the considerations of morality and ethics which concerned him? Sherlock had told John that he would leave university for him if he has to.

Not that it matters to John. John had told him that they could have nothing when Sherlock had said that. Because they couldn't. They really couldn't. John would always remember Sherlock as his student before anything else. That is not taking in account the fact that he is male and that it is against his own nature. Homosexuality is against his nature. He has never been, in his conscious memory, attracted to a man before.

Once, Sherlock had asked him, if he really was choosing his nature over his heart. John had told him that there was no choice. There was no "heart" in the equation.

Sherlock had simply sniggered. John couldn't see the tiny flash of hurt before he had masked it with humourless humour. He has never seen Sherlock hurt, and neither does he ever want to see.

He had thought that finally, he would get time off from university, that for the first time, he might, _might_ not care about the fact that Sherlock is his student, since they're both officially on holiday. He's developed a fondness for his company without even realising it. He's developed a need for Sherlock's presence, and no, he did not think this, did not say this aloud.

After all, he isn't the first professor to fall for a student of all people. Not that he has fallen, he thinks uselessly. He's heard of professor-student romances. He's reading an awful lot of them on Playbooks and Kindle like a teenage girl reads the _Twilight _series. They never end well, these professor-student romances. There's a generation gap, then there's a serious breach of laws and regulations. They never, ever end well.

Because they can never get together. And even if they do, they are eventually found out. Walls have ears. There's no such thing as a secret romance. It all comes out eventually. And when it does, John would be sacked and moreover, Sherlock would be expelled.

But they usually end before they have even begun. Because, deep inside, professors aren't the person they appear as in class, because that facade, the impression of coolness with the appealing sort of sternness and invincibility that one makes on their students, is necessary for keeping a sense of discipline in reckless neo-adults. And when the student begins to understand that they fell for someone completely apart, for someone who is human and imperfect . . . by that time, it's usually too late.

That's why it isn't right. The biggest reason.

John can't tell Sherlock that. It would drive them apart. Sherlock is the one good thing that's happened to him over the decade. He wants him to stay at a distance. But he doesn't want to lose him. Doesn't want to tell him.

That John isn't the person Sherlock has fallen for. It's Dr. Watson he's fallen for.

That Professor Dr. Watson and _John_ are two different people.

Even if Sherlock looks at him like he knows him better than _John_ knows himself.

John stares at the room blankly.

Three weeks. Almost a month. 1/12th of a year. 1/120th of a decade. The more he thinks, the longer the separation seems.

How's he going to spend over three weeks without Sherlock?

John straightens up, and nods smartly to himself. He can stay. He's going to be thirty in another year. Of course, he can.

* * *

><p>19th December, 2014, 11:55 pm<p>

"Hello?"John is fixing himself a cup of tea when he sees Sherlock calling his mobile and his heart beats a little faster than usual. He doesn't dare to ignore his phone call because he never does and because it might be the last time in three weeks that he gets to hear his voice, "Who's this?"

He knows it is Sherlock; he's got the number saved in his phone since the first time Sherlock called him, but just for the sake of pretending that a university professor won't have his student's number in his phone and won't talk to him when it's going to strike twelve in another five minutes, he responds like that.

For the first time, Sherlock doesn't pass a smartarse retort at John's instinctive reply.

"I'm downstairs."

John's heart skips a beat as he looks down the window to see Sherlock at his doorstep, standing in the snow. Sherlock could've sent a text saying that, but no, it was urgent. He wonders why Sherlock didn't ring the doorbell. If he's thinking that John is going to kick him out . . . then he's completely right. It's twelve of bloody clock midnight, how dare Sherlock come to his flat now? How dare Sherlock come to his flat at all? He's a sodding student, how dare he take such liberties with him, his professor?

"Why?"

"Just come down, would you?"Sherlock sounds irritated, and now John's a little peeved too.

"Go away, Mr. Holmes. People will see."

"They'll see, but they won't observe. At any rate, it's almost twelve!"

". . . Alright, I'll be a mo."

The dial tone is all John hears as a response. John takes a deep breath, more than his lungs can accommodate, wears his reading glasses like his battle armour and goes down, his heart in his throat. Holmes really did have some nerves, coming to his house at such a late hour.

He grabs his coat and tries to walk down so that he doesn't look like he was in a hurry. But the elevator's taking too much bloody time—someone's held it on the fourth floor—and he rushes down the stairs. Sherlock is impatient at his best.

John literally feels like a repressed _Pride and Prejudice-_era girl stealing away from her family to meet her lover at the dead of night. He tries not to think about the parallelism.

Sherlock greets him with an amused smirk, "Someone's in a hurry."

"No, I was sleeping," John protests feebly, pointing to his dishevelled hair.

"You're wearing your glasses."

". . . I was reading," John interjects lamely. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"You were reading and sleeping?"

"Why did you call me?"John plops his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, "You know you can't call me, Sherlock. You really need to stop calling me; I'm your professor—"

"I'm leaving tomorrow. First train in the morning from King's Cross."Sherlock utters, and John's speech comes to a stop.

So, that's it then. Sherlock is leaving. On such short notice. John won't see him for more than three weeks, won't have to talk to him. Won't get to talk to him. Face to face.

John is already contemplating the shortest route to King's Cross in his mind, and then he realises why Sherlock gave him that extra bit of information after all. Manipulative little prick.

"Right. . ." he clears his throat and looks away, arms tucked behind his back, "Good . . . okay."

Sherlock's staring at him intensely, his eyes penetrating, his lips pressed together as he observes John motionlessly, betraying no emotion whatsoever. He's just staring, and John's looking back at him steadily. The cold doesn't even register.

"Why're you telling me this, Mr. Holmes?"John lets it slip. He utters his last name in the hope that the answer filters out anything that might be suggestive of that fact that John needs to know the details of Sherlock's little hiatus in his parents' house. It reminds him—again—that Sherlock is only a kid. He's getting entangled with a kid who goes to his parents for Christmas.

"Just . . . thought I'd tell you and meet you before I went," Sherlock looks confused, not faux-confused, actually confused."Isn't that what—you're supposed to do?"

"So you're doing this because you're supposed to do this?"_And not because you wanted to do this_ remains unspoken.

"I didn't realise it bothers you that much."

"What?"

"Me going," Sherlock says with a knowing smile."Relax; I'll be back by ninth."

Three weeks, John swallows harshly. He has never been away from Sherlock for that long. He secretly wants him not to go, but of course, he's never going to admit it to himself, let alone Sherlock."I'm not bothered."

"You're tense."Sherlock is looking at his left leg.

"I'm cold, Sherlock," John insists, "Since you chose to come at midnight like a fugitive. In case you haven't noticed, it had been snowing."

"Oh," Sherlock looks like he has suddenly had a very grand epiphany and looks around them, "right. . ."

John seems to realise where this is going and he instantly puts up a hand, "Hang on, we're not going to _my_ flat."

"But why not? Is Jeanette still there?"

John gives a bodily jolt. "No!" He jerks his head up at him and Sherlock is only grinning like the Cheshire Cat. John has not seen much of Sherlock's grins, and he coughs away the feeling. Sherlock sobers up real quick.

"So . . ."John begins awkwardly again, "Ms. Hooper is going with you, too."Sherlock looks like he takes in the tone of John's voice, only slightly tinged with melancholy.

"Yes, she is. I tried to talk my mother out of it, but she's far too fond of Molly to listen to me."

"Of course she would be fond, Ms. Hooper is a good girl."John tries to make it sound a bit on the okay-yeah-I'm-listening-it-doesn't-bother-me sort, but it comes out as bitter. He wishes to any deity that Sherlock misses that, but of course he doesn't, he never does. His eyes narrow. John realises with a pang that he notes that he never says "Molly" the way he takes Sherlock's name; he says "Ms. Hooper".

"What're you trying to say?"

"Nothing," John knows he's guilty of green jealousy but he tries not to let it affect him, "It's all good. Fine. Whatever suits you. . ."

Sherlock is still staring at him. John blows out a breath and continues, "Your mum and dad like her. She's a good girl."

And John tells himself that he is not interested in being a contender for securing the affections of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and heaves an all-suffering sigh, "Oh God, how many times do I have to tell you? Molly is not my girlfriend! She simply likes to team up with my mother and wreak havoc on the peace of my mind!"

"Why not?"John completely ignores the part after 'girlfriend', "She feeds you up all the time! Not that I'm interested, but Molly Holmes does sound good."

Sherlock looks like he's alternating whether to storm off with a sulk or whether to laugh his guts out. With a well-suppressed smirk, he replies, "Is that what you're going to do too? Feed me up?" He finishes 'up' with a neat little pop sound.

"Mr. Holmes—"John shakes his head, preparing another lecture in his best professor manner.

"John," he says, blowing out a breath, "Stop. I promise. I'll be back by ninth."

John doesn't say anything. He can't look at Sherlock now. He's just looking at the black scarf wrapped around his neck, and then down at his hands as he feels Sherlock's bony fingers touching his. He closes his eyes. Sherlock's fingers feel hot, aflame against his exposed ones, almost as if they're heating elements. His heart is raging in his chest. He feels like the teenager he misses so much when he walks into St. Bart's and sees the happy, carefree students. What if something happens to Sherlock—touchwood—before ninth? What if the railway network in Britain collapses? What if the World War Three breaks out? What if Sherlock forgets him—double touchwood—when he gets back? What if Sherlock gets bored of him—millions of touchwood—and hooks up with Ms. Hooper by the time he gets back?

He opens his eyes. His glasses are doing no work.

Sherlock threads his fingers with John's, their palms touch, tingling, and John goes completely lax under him. It is the closest Sherlock has ever come to displaying emotion. His face is so tender, so carefree, like even if he's gone through a lot, he hasn't seen the world yet and John wants nothing more than to protect him from the harshness of it. He's never felt like this, so racy, so on-the-edge. Such a simple act has never felt more sensual.

"I'll call you."Sherlock promises and John retracts his hand from his grip, trying to get his breath back. Sherlock smiles knowingly and then he turns around and leaves without a goodbye.

"You need to stop calling for texting my mobile, Mr. Holmes," John calls after him, after his retreating figure.

"Will do!"Sherlock clicks and winks at him.

John finally takes his glasses off.

* * *

><p>20th December, 2014. 9:11 am<p>

It's beyond ten when John wakes up in the morning. Although he's supposed to reach the meeting of the faculty of Life Sciences and Biotechnology in about half an hour, he knows that Simpson, the HoD, will probably take his time, maybe arrive by twelve-ish. He lies in his bed, clutching his covers and staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes.

Sherlock is hundreds of miles away from him. Today will be the third time he'll be going to go to a university without Sherlock's presence there. Today will be the first time he's going to have to go to the university with the prior knowledge that Sherlock isn't going to be there.

He shakes off lethargy and checks his phone. Only one message from Sherlock:

**_I reached. 9:37 am. Happy Holidays. SH_**

Well, Sherlock isn't one to mince words.

* * *

><p>20th December, 2014. 12:17 pm<p>

The meeting is extremely boring. The room is way too comfortable, the heating just optimum. The chair upon which John is sitting is padded, much more comfortable that the ones in his office. Simpson drawls and drawls about something that John can't be arsed to listen to. Beside him, Abbott pretends to be writing something down, maybe what Simpson is saying, but he's just scrawling down things like eggs, plastic mug, toy that makes sound etc.

Needless to say, John is sleepy. Extremely sleepy. He prods Abbott. "What's this?"

"Oh. . . My wife's shopping list," he shrugs.

John attempts a weak smile. Tries not to think of Sherlock.

After fifteen minutes, John's phone vibrates in his pocket. He knows who it can be. He doesn't have a very wide circle of callers. His colleagues are sitting in the room with him. Clara rarely calls him, only when Harry is involved, and Harry is in rehab and Clara is her emergency contact.

He knows exactly who it is.

John's sleepiness disappears in an instant.

"S'cuse me," he mutters to an annoyed Simpson glaring daggers at him, rising to his feet clumsily and gesturing to his blinking phone, "It's. . . erm, family. Sort of emergency, sir."

Before Simpson can grant him permission, John bolts out of the door, his voice steadier than his heart, "Hello?"

"Hey, professor," Sherlock's drawl is still the same, almost bordering on mockery.

"Hello, then," he asks brusquely, leaning on the banister and looking down at the indoor courtyard.

There's no answer. Sherlock always does that, compelling John to ask if he was there and then making it look like John is the eager one here. This time John doesn't say anything. He knows this. He isn't eager to talk to Sherlock, God no. It's just an excuse to escape the drudging meeting, or so he tells himself. Or he doesn't know what the real excuse is anymore.

"And how's the meeting going, professor?"Sherlock asks, and John really can't know how Sherlock knows that. It's not public knowledge, not given on the notice board, and it's something that only the faculty would know, not a student like Holmes even if he tried his best.

"How did you know that?"John asks, surprise evident in his voice. Sherlock chuckles on the other end of the line. The sound of it, sonorous, deep.

"You're always so eager to talk to me," Sherlock simpers, and there, it's there again, "even when you have company, but today, you took your time to answer my call. You're engaged somewhere else. At this time? Definitely in St. Bart's. But there's no student to teach. And you took your time. Means you're with Simpson. Means you're in a meeting."

There it is again. Sherlock twisting everything to make it sound like John wants it, John wants him. He doesn't. Holmes is mistaken.

"As wrong as the basis of that reasoning is, yes, I'm in a meeting and I'd appreciate it if you keep the phone down."

He waits for it. The remarks that say that John doesn't want him to keep his phone down, that John likes the attention. He knows that Sherlock isn't going to cut the phone. Because he never does.

But Sherlock simply hums over the line and then says, "Okay. Suit yourself."

And John hears the dial tone ringing. His mouth falls open as he stares at the phone for three seconds. With a slump in his shoulders, he looks at the heavy door. He can see Simpson standing at the head of the table, saying something animatedly.

John really hates one Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Watson?"John turns at the mention of his name. Simpson is calling him.<p>

Simpson is someone John and Abbott dislike with all their heart. Dr. Peter J. Simpson is the HoD of the faculty of Life Sciences and Biotechnology, the sort of teacher who can bet wagers with students over the life and future of another student. Like if there's a conscientious student who might be the class topper and if he strikes a wager with Simpson that his friend who might be consistently at the bottom of the rank list will manage a job in the campus interviews, Simpson will be the one to ensure that that student doesn't manage to get a job at all, ever, just to prove himself right. All over manipulative, sadistic and narcissistic bastard, to sum it in six words and a conjunction.

Sherlock hates Simpson. It's rare because Sherlock doesn't "hate" a lot of people. In fact, he hates much less number of things than most people do. It's more like he pities him, makes fun of him in front of other students without any consideration of anything else. Sherlock can get to the Dean of Students and force him to shit his pants, let alone Simpson. All the other students fight to get into Simpson's good books. To Sherlock, it doesn't matter at all. He knows he's going to top despite Simpson's best attempts.

John sometimes wishes he had the guts Sherlock has.

Simpson doesn't back down. He targets Molly. He thinks that if Holmes were alone, that if he didn't have anyone who warranted his actions (which Molly doesn't at all) he wouldn't be like this. He tries to breach Holmes' friendship with Molly all the time, tries to make it such that she gets the hardest paper in all the exams. He tries to brainwash her mind into making her believe that Holmes is a bad influence on her and her progress. But Molly is loyal, all the time. She knows exactly how much of a bad influence Sherlock is.

Abbott makes be-careful eyes at him, and John doesn't respond with a look. He makes his way to his boss.

"Yes, sir?"

Simpson is going through his papers self-importantly as he motions to John to sit down with a flick of his wrist, not even bothering to look up. John sits down, waiting patiently for him to start.

"You are Holmes' anatomy instructor," he gets down right to business. John's throat has gone very dry.

"I'm a full-time faculty, sir," he points out.

"Oh yes," Simpson drawls, "indeed you are. How's he in your class?"

John knows where this is going. Brainwashing and manipulation, because he's new and young."I don't pay attention to his comments. So he's quiet. Mostly."

Simpson's eyes narrow, "Has he never shouted "boring"?"

"Occasionally, yes," he nods a little too much, "I replied to him the first month, and then took to ignoring, seeing as it was useless."

"Has he never . . . been rude, brash to you?"

John can't defend Sherlock without implying that Sherlock accorded him some special treatment over other professors, and John can't speak against Sherlock because he simply will not. Simpson is worse than what Sherlock can be.

"Occasionally, yes."

"I've heard that he stays behind in your class after your lecture on Mondays." Simpson is looking at him pointedly, searching in his face for anything that might give John away, "_occasionally_."

John's heart has gone still in his chest. How could he possibly have known that? Is the CCTV camera functioning? Did it capture them sitting together, fingers half-an-inch apart, dying to be touched? Did it capture the sparks that John feels whenever he looks at Sherlock? Does it see his heart trying to beat right out of his chest?

"That's correct."John nods. Simpson is still as a stone and it's beginning to unnerve him.

"Is that so?" Simpson crosses his arms, "Kindly elaborate."

"Well. . ."John prays to any deity that he doesn't falter. If he's sacked even for nothing but vague suspicion, he'll have to go and slobber over his CV and hope to himself that he'll able to teach with the knowledge that Sherlock is not going to be there, with his quick wit and his half-smiles and his larger-than-life presence in the lecture theatre which feels so goddamned small when he's there. . .

"He stays. I do my work, he does his."

"I think that's fairly apparent," Simpson says sternly, looking at him from over the tops of his glasses, "I've never heard of him staying in any other teacher's class, so I was a little surprised to get wind of this. . . development."

"Oh, right," John nods. He can't see any way to get out of this without letting something slip, "Yes, Dr. Abbott had been telling me about it. Never to let Holmes stay back after your class."

Simpson looks at him, and keeps his eyes right on John. John knows why. He isn't saying anything like "Okay sir, I won't", or "I can't stand the sight of him". The moment John says that, Simpson will change colours like a chameleon. Sherlock had told him about how he brainwashes Molly twice a month.

"Why only in your class?" Simpson leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. John looks at him steadily.

"Erm. . . I didn't concern myself with something as insignificant." It's the biggest lie John has ever told. From Day One, even before Sherlock began to occupy his mind, even before he first felt his heart beat faster than usual when he saw Sherlock sitting at the back of his lecture theatre, he used to wonder why Sherlock sat only in his class. Sherlock had told him that his next class was on the same floor and he really didn't want to take the pains to go someplace else only to come back to square one.

At that time, John hadn't even considered that there was another side to the explanation. His imagination really was poor.

"Well, you'd better, Dr. Watson," Simpson says gravely, "We cannot have Holmes thinking that he might be accorded some sort of favouritism from any teacher, let alone you. The more supporters he has," at this point, Simpson glances down at the table and John follows his gaze to see an answer sheet with Ms. Hooper's roll number on it. John knows it only because it's just after Sherlock, "the more confident he'll get."

John nods stiffly. Simpson passes a file to him. He opens it to see answer sheets with Sherlock's roll number on them. He swallows harshly. Brilliant. Just the thing he needed. Merry Christmas.

"Usually, the mid sems paper," Simpson continues, closing his eyes and joining his palms to bring his fingertips to his chin, "is corrected by some other teacher, someone who doesn't know the student or his roll number, just to keep things fair, you see. I always ensure that _I_ get Holmes' paper. But due to some . . . unavoidable circumstances, I cannot find the time.

"Recall the times he's insulted you, the times he's made jokes at your expense. Take the whole vacations if you must," Simpson opens his eyes."Whatever you do, Holmes' score must not exceed 90."

John looks down at the legible spidery scrawl and feels warmth blooming in him just to know that Sherlock's warm hands had moved against this, filling black ink in the spaces. He forces his gaze up.

He wants to laugh out loud. He wants to tell Simpson that Sherlock cares nothing about his marks. Simpson thinks that he might gain something over Sherlock if he beat him to marks.

"How much does he usually get?"

Simpson smirks, "You're intelligent." And then his smirk drops, "92."

"Alright, sir," John clears his throat, waiting to be dismissed. Simpson smiles.

"You're a full-time faculty." He reminds him again."Make sure you remember that."

* * *

><p>20th December, 2014. 9:57 pm<p>

John has all his books out on his study table, the centre being occupied by Sherlock's bundle of answer sheets. The room is dark with only one desk lamp illuminating the papers that John's working upon. Not that there's much to distract him from Sherlock's handwriting, but just for the sake of pretending that there is.

Sherlock never writes much. Once, John had to convince him that the marks are given with emphasis on quantity _and_ quality. For a five marker, you were supposed to write five points with short explanation worth one mark each. For ten markers, you were supposed to write five points with explanation worth two marks each.

Sherlock did not follow this. He wrote three points worth five marks where those three were the most important and relevant ones, with long explanations for each. Sherlock had told him that once he started, he couldn't stop. His hand wasn't as fast as his head, and the points just kept flooding in his head and he struggled to write them down in a proper, organised manner.

But now that Sherlock has gained more speed and some slight control over the outflow of information in his head, it's impossible to cut marks. It's like he's perfected the last thing that kept him from claiming a hundred out of hundred. It's impossible to even put a red mark on his paper except for a tick.

There's not a place to cut marks; despite the speed, Holmes' handwriting is legible, so John has ruled out any misunderstanding excuses. What Holmes writes is correct, his grammar and punctuation are perfect. There's no scope of cutting marks at all. John is truly astonished how Simpson manages to subtract even eight of them.

He buries his head in his papers. He could make it look like miscalculation; he doubts if Sherlock would go to the trouble of getting the paper rechecked. The boy's made it clear quite early on; he'd be happy if John failed him, simply because he'd get to spend more time with John under the pretext of extra improvement lectures.

He looks at his phone. Still no message from Sherlock.

* * *

><p>21st December, 2014. 3:53 am<p>

It's the second year anniversary of the Doomsday as predicted by the Mayans. John tells himself that he isn't going to call Sherlock. He isn't going to cheat himself. He isn't going to call Sherlock under the pretext of telling him about Simpson. He can handle this. He's almost 29, for God's sake.

* * *

><p>21st December, 2014. 3:57 am<p>

John finds one mistake in Sherlock's paper after having scanned it for the seventh time. He doesn't know whether to be happy or guilty about it.

Two marks gone.

Three papers. Ten marks each to be cut. Twenty eight more to go.

Damn it, he isn't going to call Sherlock.

* * *

><p>21st December, 2014. 4:38 am<p>

John's going through his own battered copy of _Gray's Anatomy._ He has cut nine till now. 21 more to go. He feels incredibly guilty.

He tries not to think why Sherlock didn't call him. He tries to ignore the sudden disappointment.

* * *

><p>21st December, 2014. 7:11 pm<p>

"Oh, simply lovely!"Clara giggles, patting John's arm as cheerfully as she can. John smiles uncomfortably.

He's in some nice French restaurant where Clara is introducing John to one of her friends against his wishes. Her name's Rose, she's smart and sort of coy, she's a journalist, she's got a deep-ish voice, she's pretty and she blushes endearingly when John smiles at her. She looks quite smitten. The dating market is so on right now, John can't believe it.

"So, John," Rose says, "Clara tells me you're a teacher. Must be pretty boring."

John tries not to glance at his phone, "I get my top-up for 'interesting' every now and then, yes."

He's not going to think about Sherlock, Sherlock who can heartlessly abandon him anytime. His hand touches Rose's across the table. He subtly retracts it back.

"Oh, John's got some fiercely loyal students," Clara says good-naturedly, "One of them . . . what's his name? Right, Sherlock Holmes. He actually helped with getting Harry into rehab, you know."

"That's really sweet," Rose puts her hand deliberately on top of John's, and John savours the feeling of smooth, soft skin, small hands. . .

Rough, calloused, large, strong but dextrous hands . . . acid-stained fingers entwined around his. The musky scent of him when he is close. His fingers long and slender, trailing up and down the length of the screen of his mobile phone, just barely grazing the glass. . .

John chokes on his breathing when the phone buzzes the text alert in his pocket. He hastily retracts his hand to draw his phone from his pocket, his brain chanting _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_ over and over again. . .

He unlocks the phone-

**_Get a talktime of £12.70 with a recharge of £11 with Vodafone Live. For MyPack, dial *123#10._**

He gulps the disappointment down his throat. Clara tries not to notice it.

Rose looks at him. John feels incredibly guilty, not for raising her hopes, but for cheating on Sherlock. Even if he's not. Sherlock is not even his bloody boyfriend. Because he isn't gay or bisexual. Because Sherlock is his student. Because Sherlock is ten years younger. Because Sherlock's attraction to him stems from the fact that someone older, wiser is talking to him, paying him attention out of the hundred other students that he teaches and that's a big deal, big enough to be flattered.

He remembers the look of disappointment when he had ended up with another date in front of him, when Sherlock had been waiting for him. John doesn't know if he can stand it.

"Can we get the bill please?"John asks a passing waiter and turns back to Rose, whose face has fallen.

"Something wrong?" She asks. Clara is still sipping her wine quietly.

"I—I'm sorry," he mutters truthfully, "I'm really not ready to date . . . not now-I'm—"

"Oh," the infamous 'oh' comes out as high-pitched and sort of disappointed, as if she's straining to keep the smile on her face, which she probably is, "it's okay, I suppose."

It's okay.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 1:03 am<p>

John can't sleep. He's shifting from one side to another, thinking, thinking and looking at the phone, looking at the ceiling, at the closed windows. There's Sherlock standing beside them, a ghost of him, from a month ago, the same damp white shirt cloying gently to his skin, his hair dampened from torrents of rain, his jeans clinging possessively to his thighs. It's always the same image that haunts him at nights.

John's never known when it came and hit him like a wave, the overly consuming desire to drag Sherlock down and kiss him, the pale glow of his skin. How can he want that? And why? Is this even possible? Or is it just some trick of his brain—can it be that John's yearning for something different, something new and exciting, something that isn't his dull and difficult teaching job has somehow transformed into physical desire?

How is that even possible?

Or did he just grab the first thing that made him feel worthwhile, useful? Is he taking advantage of Sherlock, as a teacher, is he misusing the trust that a student instinctively places in a teacher? After all, Sherlock would've given up long, long time ago, had it not been for John's own subtle, unconscious attempts at keeping him, them, hanging by a thread.

Sherlock comes and sits beside him on the bed, smiling knowingly. John extends his hand to him, his hair, his short dark-auburn hair. He feels his bedsheets.

"You should've told me," John says quietly, as quietly as possible, afraid that noise might deafen whatever they have, "that you were going. I could've punched you in time."

"I thought professors aren't allowed to _touch_ their students," Sherlock says playfully, "If you punch me, I'll file a lawsuit against you."

He sobers up when he sees John so miserable, even if John's only imagining it.

"I'll come back," Sherlock blinks, stony-faced, "and you can punch me then. That's, of course, if your fist can reach my face at all."

"Want me to prove it?"

"Oh no," Sherlock smiles, happier than John has ever known him, "take your own time. One day," and Sherlock lowers his gaze to his lips, "you just might."

John reaches out for his phone, goes to his inbox. He hasn't deleted a single message that Sherlock has sent him.

He isn't going to text Sherlock.

He opens Photos. There's a "Wallpaper" folder and a "Camera" folder with a lone photo in it. The photo of two men, professor and student, the open air theatre of St. Bart's in the background and several round tables and exhibition stalls scattered around the ground during the finale day _Technoholics _of the annual college technical fest organised by the engineering students, _Scintillations_, in November. Even though Sherlock is from UG Sciences, he is never averse to a bit of technology display and about more innovative ways of ethical hacking.

Not that John had accepted any offer to roam around with Sherlock. He simply liked watching Robowars. It was only that Sherlock is too well known even amongst the engineering people. A bit of a commotion had broken out and John had made his way to Sherlock like a north-seeking compass needle.

John has no memory how he ended up in the grounds, taking a photo, with no consideration that the man beside him is a student who fancies him.

He was the one who had insisted on a photo. Sherlock had simply rolled his eyes.

It's memories like these that make John wonder whether he is the one making a mistake instead of Sherlock. After all, Sherlock's reaction is natural. After all, he is, in a way, playing with Sherlock's attentions, savouring them, keeping him from making another move even if it's cruel to do so. Had it been any other girl instead of John, the whole thing would've gone to another level.

No, he's not wrong. John has made it clear to Sherlock that he doesn't have anything for him, even if Sherlock doesn't believe it.

Had it not been for Sherlock making him see it, he'd never have even noticed the burgeoning potential.

Sherlock is standing beside John, back straight, expression zero but a polite smile on his face for the sake of the photo, arms behind his back, their shoulders lightly brushing against each other. Looking so ageless. Looking so untouchable.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 1:15 am<p>

John is gazing at their only photo together.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 1:25 am<p>

John is still gazing at their only photo together. He can see how stupid he looks next to Sherlock, looking stern and relaxed at the same time. Sherlock is not really smiling. It's the sort of smile that Mona Lisa gives to the rest of the world.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 1:38 am<p>

John is gazing at their only photo together. His arm is starting to hurt, coagulation of lactic acid due to anaerobic respiration in muscles. The pain from the slowly developing cramps hardly registers.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 1:53 am<p>

John is still gazing longingly at their only photo together.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 2:05 am<p>

John reaches out to touch him, only to feel cold glass touching him back. He looks at the calendar with a groan.

18 days to go.

He'd rather go back to St. Bart's and endure the pressure just to know that he's there, he's there in his class twice a week, than be here, miserable and alone. Arms crossed, legs stretched to the fullest, head cocked to the right and making John aware that he's there, ready to share a glance with him. Ready to give him a half-smile that makes John forget every single foolish thing that's happened to him over the week.

He slumps back in his bed. Looking at the ceiling, he exhales a breath, trying to get over the fact that he might be turning into a lovesick puppy.

He gets up, dumps his phone on the bed, goes to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea and switches on the TV.

He simply hopes he doesn't mix salt and powdered sugar up. Again.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 2:10 am<p>

Sherlock is all wrapped up in covers, curled up in an armchair right in front of the fire; his head plopped against a hand, vacant eyes watching the flames crackle. His phone rings out. He glances at it, deciding whether it would be of any value. He doesn't know the number, never seen it. Exhaling a breath, he clicks it on, "Sherlock Holmes."

No answer. Sherlock frowns, "Hello?"

There's absolutely pin-drop silence on the other side of the line. Sherlock draws in a breath, "Hello?"

"I really don't know what sort of fool you are, prank calling at," he glances at the grandfather clock, "ten past two at night. People are supposed to be asleep at this point, moron . . . not that I'm most people."

Then something clicks in his brain, "Unless you knew that the person you were calling was mostly going to be awake at this time of night. . . You know me. Very well, let's see . . . I haven't slept with anyone, not really. . . and Molly is the only other person who knows my daily habits—"

The dial tone sounds in his ear. Sherlock frowns, does not bother to commit the number to his memory and goes back to staring at the flames.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 10:51 pm<p>

Molly and Mrs. Holmes are trying to make Sherlock eat vegetables, especially cucumber. Mycroft arrives, because from this day onwards, Christmas for him has become a lot more important. He suppresses his amused smirk. Sherlock groans.

"Phone!" He cries like the devil when his phone rings out like a saviour. It's the same number. Frowning, he picks it up, "Hello?"

No answer. But sound of regular breath.

"Okay, this is becoming boring. Why're you calling me . . . or is the network bad? That can happen; today is Winter Solstice after all. I really don't know why people insist on calling the shortest day of the year by a name when they can't fix elements with atomic numbers more than 100 with proper names like the others!"

Still no answer.

"Did my brother pay you to spy on me?"

"Because we don't require that particular service right now. I'm in the same house as he is."

"Cut the phone," Sherlock insists obstinately, and Molly and Mrs. Holmes snap their necks towards him in alarm, "Oh, for God's sake!"

He cuts the phone and pretends to sulk over it so that he won't have to eat.

* * *

><p>22nd December, 2014. 10:53 pm<p>

John Watson is not proud of himself. But he can sleep now. At least.

The two phone calls remind him—again and again—that Sherlock is still a boy, howsoever clever. A nineteen year old boy who loves chemistry and can fight for the right-to-be-given-elements-with atomic-number-greater-than-100-a-proper-namewith the same passion that a child wielding his new Star Wars lightsaber does.

He tries not to think about what Sherlock means by "not really" sleeping with someone else.

* * *

><p>23rd December, 2014. 7:57 am<p>

It's cold, warm, cosy, snowy, but John doesn't want to stay in his bed till late. He wakes up, surprisingly well-rested.

He has to get back to Sherlock's paper, cut 18 more marks. Christmas doesn't really make any sense for him. Maybe a small house thing with Clara and her friends that John doesn't recognise, a couple of gift cards to Abbott and McKinley, before a visit to Harry in rehab. Clara's told him, Harry is doing really well.

He wonders if he should post a gift card to Sherlock, before he gives himself a mental shake.

_Are you mental, Watson?_ He screams to himself. Even if nothing is wrong with the idea, it screams no, no, NO to him.

He looks longingly at his phone. Sherlock had promised that he would call.

Not that it matters.

* * *

><p>23rd December, 2014. 10:42 am<p>

Mycroft would be coming directly on Christmas Eve to demolish the turkey and the pie singlehandedly. Molly and Mrs. Holmes have gone out. Christmas shopping is what they had said. Sherlock hated them. How dare they spoil the favourite season of the year for him?

As a result, Mr. Holmes is the only person in the house, making little humming noises in the kitchen all by himself. Groggily, Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair and yawns. He loathes this inactivity. There's nothing to do. There's no internet in the house. The Wi-Fi router has gone loony. The broadband cables have been snapped by the vicious snowstorm a few days earlier. If it was up to him, he would've packed his bags and gone back to London by this time.

But he owes Mycroft this Christmas.

His phone rings. He knows he's torturing John. But it doesn't seem like it's having the desired effect on him.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Hello," comes a voice funny, high and scary at the same time, "Mr. Holmes, this is Detective Inspector Bradstreet from Scotland Yard."

Sherlock frowns. Detective Inspector with a voice like that would never be taken seriously, let alone be promoted to DI in the first place."I'm listening."

"We've just got the report from Intelligence that your life is at risk."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, "Wrong number. It's my brother you're looking for." He cuts the phone, waiting for John to give up.

* * *

><p>23rd December, 2014. 10:43 am<p>

John is staring at his emergency phone, the settings of _WeirdVoice_ app staring back at him, corner of his mouth twitching. Great, just great. He really has no imagination.

* * *

><p>24th December, 2014. 8:33 am<p>

John has 15 more marks to cut from Sherlock's. He wants to tell Sherlock about this, ask him how to do it, but chances are that Sherlock already knows about Simpson. Of course he does. There's not a thing that Sherlock can't know.

* * *

><p>24th December, 2014. 12:35 pm<p>

Sod it. He's going to call Sherlock. This is not an excuse. He is not cheating himself. He really needs to know. Sherlock might not forgive him if he ever found out about this, he manages to convince himself.

Cool it, he thinks. He is just a student. No need to be a teenage girl meeting Justin Bieber. Sherlock is just a student. He's seen students before. He's called students up before, called the CRs of the class to notify them about their next worksheet etc. He'll keep it brief, professional, clean, smooth.

He'll keep it brief. At any rate, national calls have more tariff than local. And John pretends that he doesn't have much credit left in his phone.

"Oh, hello," the voice on the other line is amused. John looks at himself in the mirror. Yes, he looks stern, the way he looks in class. Is that what he looks like? Christ!

"Mr. Holmes," stony face, stone cold voice. Curt, cool. Strained.

"So . . . you called. It _is_ Christmas. Well, technically, it's Christmas Eve—"

"Yes. Listen, um. . ." John interrupts, "Simpson handed me your answer sheets. I'm correcting them."

Like he expected, Sherlock starts chuckling harder, "It _really_ is Christmas."

"He's also threatened me with my job."

That seems to shut Sherlock up. He stays silent for a few seconds, and then speaks up, "What's the limit he's prescribed you now? Below 70?"

John relaxes. Now this is in his control. He's happy to be civil with Holmes. This is so much better. "Not that extreme. His words were 'Holmes' score must not exceed 90'. Seems like he wants to teach you a lesson but also wants to keep you as a research scholar."

Sherlock chuckles again."Like that's going to happen. . . Anyway, I got something over 660-ish in the annual exam last year, I really don't remember. You can go to my flat; my landlady keeps the keys . . . although I think I must have used them to create a bonfire during some protest march in St. Bart's against some football world cup thing in Brazil during June. . ."

John sighs, bowing his head. Sherlock is going into banter mode. Again.

". . . My secondary school reports are actually better, they're so diverse in their grades . . .Anyway, I can't believe Simpson is unable to cut even ten measly marks from my papers! I'd cut more!"

"Got any ideas?"

"Hmm. . . seven, so far."

"But . . . does it not matter to you?"

"What?"

"I mean, this is injustice, Sherlock!" John says simply, knowing the smile that would be there on Sherlock's lips. "You can't let Simpson do this to you every time! Do you know where I had to cut your marks? You did some rough work below the margin. I had to cut three marks for that. You made some extra holes in your answer sheets when you were bored in the hall. Two marks for that!"

Sherlock exhales a deep breath. ". . . It is wrong, John. But if I speak up, he'll start subtracting Molly's marks. I doubt she'll be able to take it if she ever scores below 600. She . . . she might start believing them that I . . ."

John sits down on his bed, gazing thoughtfully at the shelf overburdened with two-inch thick books. Sherlock is stupid and childish most of the time, even if he volunteers to be like that, but he's never seen this side to him. The wisdom in him. His regard for Ms. Hooper. He can see why she sticks with him, after all.

"She won't. She'll believe you first, any day."

"Hmm . . . don't tell her I told you this," Sherlock speaks quickly, way too gracelessly, even for him and John tries not to laugh. He can just imagine what Ms. Hooper would do if she ever heard Sherlock saying that to her, going by the awful number of cats and pink colours in her . . . well, everything.

Maybe make a pie out of him and then eat him up with a dip made out of various endearments.

"I won't. . . So, what do I do?"

"You're a grown-up man," Sherlock drawls, "like you keep reminding me. You should be able to make your decisions—"

"Stop it, Sherlock . . . just stop saying that. I called you because I felt like I needed to tell you about this. I feel so . . . stupid . . ."

There's silence on the line. John's starting to think that maybe the connection is lost, but then Sherlock speaks again, this time his voice pensive.

"It bothers you, more than I initially thought."

John gulps. "What?"

"Teaching. . . Makes you feel worthless, especially doing such things like serving the animosity of another—"

"Mr. Holmes," John draws in a deep breath, "I've called you—"

"Everything has pros and cons, John. I've heard that teaching is the only profession that teaches all other professions . . . or something like that. Shouldn't you be proud . . . ? I mean, it's what you like doing; being a bloody council worker."

John sighs. "Stop acting like my guidance counsellor and tell me what to do."

After a deliberate pause and an intake of breath, John hears it. "I can tell you how to do it, if only you know what to do. High time you made decisions for yourself, John."

John tries not to scoff. Sherlock talking about responsibility and decisions? Seriously? He draws in a harsh breath. If there's anyone who knows, it's Sherlock. He knows he sounds pathetic. After all, he's a bloody teacher. He's supposed to be this untouchable, invincible, all-knowing entity who knows the answer to everything, be it syllabus or real-world things. Sherlock is supposed to be looking up to him, up at him. Not the other way round.

"Please, Sherlock. Tell me what to do."

"I thought I had to stop acting as your guidance counsellor," Sherlock drawls. John can hear the smirk over the line. Sometimes he wonders whether Sherlock is a sadist.

John sucks in another harsh breath down his pinhole-thin throat. "Just . . . Please."

"Your mother admitted you to prep when you were four. You played rugby because your father did. You entered college when you knew that nothing much could come out of being a PhD, well, nothing that you'd like to be—"

"Mr. Holmes!"

". . . You're still running on the rails that your father laid down for you ten years ago, John. Make this one small decision. . . All by yourself."

John is still. He has never told Sherlock about his father, that he wanted John to be Dr. John Watson, respectable, white-collar, stable job with clean hands, no blood or surgeries or lacerations. He has never told Sherlock that his father played rugby. Or that he played rugby.

"I promise I'll be okay with whatever you decide," Sherlock's voice is low, non-judgemental. "You're a grown man; you can do this."

"Sherlock, bloody well tell me or I swear . . ." John gulps, looks away. He presses mute for a second to clear his heavy voice. "This is about you. Don't make this about me."

"It is about me, yes, but the decision's sorely yours."

Taking a deep breath, John nods. He can do this. "I can't cut your marks; it's wrong."

"You can't _not_ cut my marks. Simpson is true to his threats."

"What?"

"Mr. Blake," Sherlock spoke as quickly as he could, as if the sky would fall down on him if he stopped talking even for once, "our previous anatomy teacher had two more years left before retirement. He refused to cut my marks. Simpson had him fired on false charges of public intoxication in front of students. . . You face the same thing, John."

John buries his head in his hands. How's he supposed to do this? Sherlock is just making it harder for him. He can't believe it. He has always known what to do. Always. How can such a simple decision derail him?

"Focus, John, what are your priorities?" Sherlock speaks quickly. "Your morals or your job? You need to know your priorities first."

That was never hard to decide.

"I—I don't know!"

"You do! You're too timid to admit it! Think about it; the pros and cons of keeping to your morals, and then the pros and cons of keeping your job—"

"I know the method, damn it!"

"Do you want your job or do you want your morals? And you can't say both, it's not possible."

John knows. He's a man with strong moral principles, but if what Sherlock says is true, then he'll have to start considering the offer that Man U is giving him. He'll have to start entertaining the possibility that Sherlock won't be there.

"What if I want my job?"

John hears an exhale followed by, "I'm not letting you cheat me. I'm not going to tell you about the other option once you choose."

"F-fine. I want my job! Happy?"

Sherlock chuckles. John is literally stupefied. After all this, after all the pressure that he put on him, Sherlock is _chuckling_? Is he making fun of him?

"How do you feel?"

"Just . . . get on with it."

"Say it then.

"Say what?"

"That you're going to cut my marks."

"Fine! I'm going to cut your marks for nothing."

"There," John can imagine the smug smirk on Sherlock's face, picture it easily. Wants to wipe it off with a kiss. Wants to dip himself in boiling oil to even have thought of that, "wasn't that easy?"

A sigh. "What do I do?"

"Hmm. . . that was eventful. Surely you'll be able to think this up too."

Now John is starting to feel angry, rising through his gut like lava. He grits his teeth, "Sherlock—"

"I'm just messing," he chuckles."Well, pfft! I'm a very bad student as the whole university knows. I trouble the teachers and the invigilators all the time, you know that. Invigilator got fed up. She wrote minus 10 on my papers to shut me up, sometimes for trying to get out of the exam hall before time was up, sometimes by disturbing others because I was bored or something like that. At any rate, I have to _request_ for my mid sems paper at the muster roll section of the main administrative building. It's tedious. I won't go, so I won't find out. There you go. Problem solved."

John collapses on his sofa; still holding on to his phone like it's his lifeline, staring at the ceiling, relief flooding in him after so much tension. That was so easy. Why didn't he think of that?

"But that's unimportant. How do you. . . feel?" He says 'feel' the way a child would say 'butt'.

"Unim—unimportant?! Sherlock, it's thirty marks! People fight like dogs for even three."

"Do I look—or in this case, sound—like I care?"

John blinks, his steady breathing returning to him. He doesn't speak for a long time. He doesn't care that his phone credit will be finished by the time he gets off the phone. His phone is slipping from his grip, his sweaty palms and he is clinging on to it. He is just silent, and not for one second does Sherlock ask him if he's there even though he is the most impatient man on the earth. He knows John is there. He always knows. Sherlock knows everything.

Then he suddenly utters what he thought he would never say.

"Do you have access to internet over there?"

Sherlock seems taken aback by the question, "What for?"

"Do you have? DSL or even Wi-Fi?" He doesn't want to raise his hopes. He used to have hopes, one time, one long time ago, away. He's careful, but Sherlock won't break it. He's never trusted anyone like that. And he's more than sure his trust isn't misplaced.

"I can "borrow" my brother's data card."

John heaves a grateful sigh, the restlessness in him dying down and speeding up at the same time."Okay, my Skype name is J_Watson. I'm cutting the phone."

"Don't be an idiot, John! Gmail is free. What I don't have is any Skype credit! I'm only nineteen and I don't have a PayPal account!"

"You were the one who was telling me about adulthood and all!" John cries out irrationally."You get to be an adult and a child as per your convenience! It's not fair!"

Sherlock chuckles at that, "Well, I'm still nineteen. At any rate, I don't use Skype all that much."

John giggles. It's stupid like nothing. "Oh, right. Yeah, hang on. I'll be there in a mo."

"Hmm . . . eager."

"Shut up and sign in to Gmail."John has never been this breathless, for a guy, just to see him. He hopes Ms. Hooper has been feeding him up.

"Yes, _professor_." He drawls, "See? I'm such an obedient student, and yet you. . ."

"Right, cut the phone please, Mr. Holmes." It's glee which floods John, boundless, pure glee of seeing Sherlock after so many . . . well only five days or so. Pure glee that even if the world is trying to keep them apart, he's still able to reach out to him. Anytime.

"John, wait!"

"Yes?"

A pause. And then, "Merry Christmas. . . in advance. And don't go on prank-calling me. It does you no good."

And then the dial tone rings in his 's heart jumps to his throat.

Sherlock knows, always knows. He had taken all precautions, concealed his own number, used _WeirdVoice_ to make his voice sound funny. Somehow, even after all that, Sherlock had understood. He doesn't know whether he would be able to face Sherlock now, within two minutes.

He scrambles for his laptop. Sherlock has given him the best Christmas present he can think of. He can return some of the favour.

* * *

><p>24th December, 2014. 2:34 pm<p>

John Watson has a small smile on his face, the sort of smile he'd rather went unseen, as he watches the blank Gmail dialog box from where Sherlock has just signed off. The perilous answer sheets lie in a completed bundle. Christmas has never been more Christmassy.

He doesn't know whether to cherish their moments or to regret them, because it's going to go nowhere after all. John is fine with platonic but . . . Sherlock has some expectations from him, after all. He's not really a Wishing well, is he?

Sherlock is his student. He reminds himself. Platonic or romantic, it's neither right nor appropriate.

Words like students, professors, university, male, nine-ten years sound like distant parameters of an equation. Parameters that can be eliminated when the equation is viewed from different angles, represented in different forms.

He can forgive himself. After all, it is the season of forgiveness, isn't it?

* * *

><p>26th December, 2014. 8:17 pm<p>

John is standing under the shower, his vision blurry from the water running down his hair and eyelashes. Christmas wasn't half-bad this year, especially when Harry is stone cold sober and incredibly grouchy about it. Well, she has a right to it, but even after almost two months, her relapse period doesn't seem to come to an end.

As for the small house thing, it was extremely awkward having Harry's friends over for the first time since the infamous intervention. John had fidgeted in his seat, wanting privacy, wanting to stay alone. Sometimes, he wonders if he's turning into Sherlock.

He turns the shower off and wraps a towel around his waist, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Not that John is someone who's incredibly self-conscious about the way he keeps himself around people—well, he is, a lot, especially when he wants to impress—but he checks out his face, wondering if he's growing old. He really can't tell if his hair's turning white because it's already ash-blond. But the bags under his eyes, the permanent incline to his shoulders as a result of pouring over books tell him that he is. Growing old.

He looks at his shoulder, the injury he had sustained back when he was in university, a good rugby player. He can almost imagine Sherlock behind him, he can imagine his own head fitting perfectly in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He can't deny that it fits perfectly.

Sometimes he wonders if Sherlock really smiles. After all, setting the regular feature of boredom aside, John has never really seen him smile when he himself is not around him. A quick twitch of lips, yes, that's uncommon as well, but not unseen, but John is sure he has never seen Sherlock _smile_ smile without him being around.

But when he is around Sherlock, he always turns away when John thinks that he might be smiling. Sherlock thinks John doesn't know that he's hiding it, but John knows.

He makes Sherlock smile, and Sherlock isn't the most pretentious of people, at least not as pretentious John can be sometimes, so he can almost assume that smiling means that he's happy.

John eyes himself top to bottom. Does he really, or is there something that is insanely hilarious about him that makes Sherlock hide his smile whenever he looks at him?

Sherlock thinks John doesn't know that he's hiding it, but John knows. Seen a shy little smile on his face against the reflection in the window pane of the car door, the transparent image superimposed over the insides of the car. Met his eyes over the dashboard mirror, eyes that, on very, _very_ rare occasions, look like they're just seeing, not observing.

John could've come closer. John could've wanted to move his arm, touch his hip, light and gentle all the while looking into Sherlock's eyes, not caring that they might die if Sherlock didn't stop driving and pull over. Could've arched his back, planted a hesitant kiss to his lips while his hand moved towards his inner thigh, for once not caring that Sherlock is a man. . . that he's never touched a man like that. Never felt aroused at the thought of being so close to another man, to think that Sherlock's face would be so close to his.

He makes Sherlock happy. He, of all people.

That's the realisation that dawns upon him. Strikes him like lightning. Makes his knees buckle.

John loses his burgeoning erection as he eyes a permanent wrinkle on his forehead and gulps. He doesn't know whether all of it is supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing.

* * *

><p>31st December, 2014. 11:48 pm<p>

John isn't the most outgoing guy on the planet, that's why he has to resort to alcohol. Also, to prove to himself that that he can drown himself in liquor and worry about the consequences ten years later.

He's still young. He's still a man in the prime of his life. He's not a nutjob professor with a nutjob job and nutjob students and a nutjob boyfriend (yes, he does say that, but he's inebriated after all). He's going to drink till his liver bursts.

Turns out, he really is old. Clubs and parties with no one you know in particular are boring after all.

He should've brought Abbott with him. But then, Abbott's got his wife and daughter, and so does McKinley. He could've got Sherlock, but then Sherlock hates parties, if the college events were anything to go by.

There are a few young students who're dancing to the groovy music nearby. One of them is tall, lanky, dark-haired. But sociable. Irrelevant. John smiles.

John is lying on a couch in the corner, watching him. The way he moves. The way the taut muscles of his pale stomach expose themselves lecherously and then are swallowed by black jacket just as he lowers his arms. The delicate curve of his hips, the vulnerable skin of his throat as John worries it with teeth and tongue, making him gasp in pleasure. John thinks about it—Sherlock hasn't slept with anyone, _not really_, to quote the man himself—and when he debates the dubiousness of _not really_, he imagines tearing the voluminous amounts of clothes off, from jacket to undershirt and twisting his dusky nipples until Sherlock pleads that he never has slept with anyone, that he is only for John, for John's taking. Running his fingers through the damp curls and pressing the keel of his hand into his crotch till Sherlock pushes him away, moaning. That white shirt, the transparency of it under the rain, now torn to shreds in John's hand. The sky-blue jeans, feeling his arousal by the palm of his hand and knowing that it's all for him, all for John that Sherlock is aroused.

Nothing compared to when he unzips him, takes it off, sees him at his most naked, the way he truly is, with all his freckles and all his wounds. All John thinks about is running his tongue and his hands over him all, laying them on his hips, over the two dimples on the two sides of the spine, perfectly thumb-shaped. All John can think of is being joined to him, skin-to-skin, lip-to-lip, tongue down his throat and Sherlock's hands, his dextrous fingers on his aching, weeping cock, John letting him see how filthy he can be as _Professor Johnny_. All the while, looking into Sherlock's eyes so dark they can consume John whole.

John doesn't realise he's beginning to touch himself as he thinks of it, of Sherlock bending down, on his knees, for John, only for John. He'll be smiling, yes, but not that shy smile, John will not let the purity of it be debased by this filthy act, of Sherlock's mouth on his cock; sweet, red, beestung lips wrapped around him, taking him in, running his tongue on the underside. John looking down to his those lips darkened with saliva and his own precome as Sherlock smirks, wanton, lustful. Sucking him, deep-throating him till _Oh, oh God, Sherlock stop. . ._

"Sherlock, fucking st-stop," John stutters to meet his eyes. There's no tousled head between his legs, but a very inappropriate erection. In a public place. The group of college students are staring at him. John realises that one of them is from St. Bart's.

John coughs and bolts out of there, ignoring the incredible pressure from his crammed jeans and his erection straining against the material.

* * *

><p>1st January, 2015. 12:54 am<p>

John is staring at the beige walls of his flat in dismay, his hand down his trousers and a soft grip of his now flaccid member. There is a distant sound of fireworks hitting the night sky, sounds of people singing something or another in the snowy street. The first New Year night he's spent alone, in a cold bed. Fantasising about Sherlock. He's never felt someone's mouth on him, something so dirty and intimate at the same time.

What if Sherlock is doing the same to himself, thinking about John, thinking about how John would feel inside him?

Two men, two hundred miles away, one thought.

Mutual need.

* * *

><p>1st January, 2014. 11:39 am<p>

It's been six days since he talked to Sherlock at all. But, for the sake of being civil, he can send a text, after all.

**_Happy New Year_**

He types it and debates whether to send it or not. Yes he can. If Sherlock says something like he was eager or something, John can always say that he sent it to all his contacts. Simple.

He takes a deep breath and sends it, his heart raging in his chest. For five minutes, he tries to tell himself that the pasta in the oven is probably beginning to burn, but then his phone lights up and so does John's face.

**_Happy New Year. SH_**

Sherlock replied. He still hasn't forgotten him.

John tries to get over it before he gets a little too much like a teenage girl at a One Direction concert. The phone vibrates in his hands again. Sherlock has sent him a second text.

**_Do you still think that it's just a photo? SH_**

John stares at the text for a long time, trying to comprehend what Sherlock means by it. Of course, John knows what he does, but he isn't sure if Sherlock really means _that_. He can't believe he still remembers _that_.

_That_ was a month ago, exactly thirty days ago. He hadn't thought that he had inadvertently hurt Sherlock by telling him that it was just a photo of them, nothing more. Because it wasn't. It was a lot more. John is not much of a selfie guy. Hell, he's not a selfie guy at all. He never likes being in photos because people might spot the subtle way he sometimes holds his previously-injured-left shoulder when he feels self-conscious, spot it past the charming smile he tries his best to flash at the camera.

Hence, apart from the family photos and the couple from his university, it is the only photo he has as a selfie with someone.

Even if it shouldn't mean anything, but just for the sake of placating himself, it is just a photo of himself and the most brilliant student he'll ever have taught. Even though teaching is not what he mostly does when it comes to Sherlock.

He hadn't realised that it probably meant just as much to Sherlock.

**_I think it's a photo of us._**

He hopes that Sherlock gets whatever hidden sentiments he has in there. After all, the photo _is_ stupid, it makes him look stupid as opposed to Sherlock, who looks stunning as always, even in the most simple of clothes.

**_You had to think for that? SH_**

The delicate, volatile feeling in his chest is gone, replaced by the heavy thud of his heart. Sherlock can sometimes be a real mood-killer.

**_Sometimes I really feel like taking the Lord's name in vain. SH_**

John doesn't know whether to be offended or be disappointed by that. The one time he's saying something that is forbidden, and that's why he's wording it so cryptically, Sherlock has to spoil it with his smartarse comments. He tries to stifle the feeling in him.

**_Shut up._**

**_I believe the more appropriate phrasing is "stop texting". SH_**

John really has half-a-mind to do that, just to annoy Sherlock, but then he remembers the last time he had done that, and what had happened after that.

**_I'm prepared to do that anytime._**

**_Ciao. SH_**

John frowns. Even though Sherlock has every fact under the sun sorted away into his brain, John very much doubts Sherlock would conserve even a micrometre for a new farewell word.

**_Where'd you pick that up?_**

**_Molly. She keeps using it an awful lot. SH_**

John feels an irrational flare of jealousy lick up his spine at the mention of Ms. Hooper's name. She's spending the Christmas in Holmes' residence. John wishes, for one desperate, vulnerable moment, that it should've been him.

John remembers Sherlock in class, the way he gets colour in his cheeks and the feeling of high in him, the way he hasn't had for any woman for the past four years. Unconsciously, he reaches out for his frown line. Somehow, it isn't there.

He gets up and struts over to the mirror, as if afraid of what he might find there staring back at him. His frown line is actually not there. He cannot comprehend whether this is possible or not.

Thinking about Sherlock is like thinking about the treasure buried in the backyard of your house; the sort that no one knows about but you; the feeling that when John walks into the university and when the world, the Green Zone, the pedestal monument with the statue of the founder of St. Bart's passes him by in inconsequential streaks, he knows that he has something more exciting, something much more worth in his life than all the ignorant people sitting, chain-smoking and gossiping even around 10 am in the morning, like John's got a secret like an ace up his sleeve that no one knows about. He sometimes feels a bit heart-in-mouth about the whole thing, sometimes, like Sherlock's a time bomb or a contraband carton of cigarettes burning a hole in a locked box under his bed.

He always finds himself being overly casual about Sherlock whenever he comes up, in recess times while chatting with the other professors whose favourite topic is how impertinent Sherlock was in their last lectures, who don't know what John has got going on right under their noses, even if it's nothing that can be labelled even as favouritism. Sometimes, John seriously feels like a little teenager about this whole secret thing of allowing Sherlock to sit in his class after the lecture during Mondays—or not saying anything when Sherlock turns up in a class for the seniors or even the freshers when he is obligated to ask him to leave because John knows why, sees the _why_ in his eyes, the way Sherlock looks at him as if John's a quest he's conquering—even though Simpson now knows about it, but doesn't realise it. He doesn't know why—maybe he's worried that spreading Sherlock around will dilute his potency, somehow. Maybe he just wants to keep Sherlock to himself. Whatever Sherlock is.

John also cannot think about Sherlock without gulping something dry and imaginary down his throat. He knows he is being wrong and unfair to the guy, that after having done so much for him, John can't return even a single part of it back to him. It stays like a low ache in his gut that he isn't able to offer anything more to Sherlock. Making him smile once to twice a week doesn't seem enough. He didn't even realise when he began to owe him so much.

**_I think my parents would like you too. SH_**

John's heart stops when he reads that. It took Sherlock awful lot of time to type that. Means he's thought about it. Carefully.

John assumes a more careful posture as he re-reads and re-reads the text, as if expecting to find some hidden meaning that implies that he is joking. Except that Sherlock doesn't joke when it comes to John _and _him. He's deadly serious all the time. He has the understanding that this is something he'd rather not take lightly. Like he's signed up for it, for life.

His parents. Sherlock's parents. Hell, they're nothing now, and John intends to be nothing any time soon.

**_And even if they don't, it won't matter. My mother understands very little as it _**

John doesn't know whether to laugh or not. What about the father? He wants to ask Sherlock.

**_Great, now I'm just texting myself. SH_**

John gulps. Suddenly, he can find the permanent wrinkle, the frown line again.

* * *

><p>2nd January, 2015. 4:35 pm<p>

"Well, I had no idea!" John chuckles, and Amanda smiles pleasantly, "I always thought you hated students and . . . you know, teaching in general."

John is sitting in a cafe with Amanda, one of his seniors from when he did his MSc who he ran into in Regent Street while purchasing some references for himself. Amanda, back then a simple girl but ambitious and who always had dreams about seeing the whole world and learning it all up, is someone John did have a crush on back then, but now, when he looks back to that time, he finds it insanely hilarious. After five minutes of having run into her, he insisted that they should catch up with each other's lives over coffee.

"Well, I did. Still do. Always will."

Amanda still looks the same, more or less, John notices, but even though she's only thirty one, there's a distinct tiredness to her. The glow has left her face, the lipstick is applied so as to not make her lips looked as chapped as they are, her nails aren't done properly. Her hair, which used to be straight back then, is somewhat between wavy and curly now.

"Busy, now-a-days?" John asks as she sips her coffee. She chortles quietly.

"Busy being unemployed." John can tell, she had put in a bid for ironic but fell somewhere along the spectrum of bitter. He feels like he shouldn't have asked her that."But you've kept yourself well, John. You're still the same. Not changed a bit. . . still the same height."

John shakes his head, smiling embarrassedly, "Oh come on. Still?"

"I'm sorry," she laughs, "I'm so sorry, I couldn't help it."

"No, no go on then; make fun of me. We run into each other four years later, and you're still making fun of me. I _was_ a laughing stock for you and Chris after all. . . anyway, how's Chris?"

The brief ray of light and joy that had come into her eyes disappears instantly like it was never there, "We. . . um, broke up. Months ago"

John instantly feels a stab of regret at having asked her that, "Oh, I'm-I'm-" he falters. He hated Chris after all; he never really liked him, for being Amanda's boyfriend at all and for the hazing and recounting those tales to her in front of John back then. He really isn't sorry. If Amanda had broken up with him back then, John would've told her that she was way better than him.

Although he would have a tough time believing that Chris and Amanda broke up. They were very close, never seen without one another. Could be one of the strongest, if not the best, relationships John has ever had the (mis)fortune to know of.

"Don't be sorry," she shakes her head, "Don't make it sound like it's your fault when it clearly can't be."

John blinks. "I wasn't saying that. . . I was just surprised, I suppose."

She cocks an eyebrow, "Surprised?"

"Well, yeah. I mean . . . I shouldn't say this. You might feel bad."

"Tell me what?"

"You guys were close," John utters as blandly as possible. To his surprise, Amanda chuckles.

"I didn't deny that. I can't believe you think saying that would make me feel bad. You're still such a little prude, Dr. Watson."

"Don't. . . call me that," John shakes his head, and Amanda looks surprised.

"Why not? It's a hell of an achievement, managing to get a PhD. I don't know all that many who passed the damn thing. So . . . I'm very proud of you, John," she leans forward to touch his arm. "You should be proud of yourself."

John smiles unsmilingly; he doesn't know whether he is. She leans back in her chair and looks around at the cafe. John follows her gaze, and slowly finds himself at the centre of her attention.

"But tell me, you aren't sorry," she observes."People were sorry when we broke up."

"Well, you didn't let me be."

"And if I let you be?"

John bites the insides of his cheeks. Did she know all along?

"Don't be daft, John," she smiles, and John imagines a faint blush to her cheeks, "You always hated Chris more than the others. You aren't the sort who keeps a grudge."

John licks his lips slowly as the blush intensifies just a little across her cheeks."So, do I have a date tomorrow?"

She smiles, this time the happiness returning. "You'll have to ask them properly, Dr. Watson. . . John."

He chuckles, "Okay, can I take you out tomorrow, 7 o'clock maybe?"

"Sure. But I get to choose the venue."

* * *

><p>3rd January, 2015. 8:03 pm<p>

John is not really averse to popcorn flicks; he's not been to the cinema for ages, he'd been so busy with his life till then. It is a nice change; holidays and a date with a girl he used to fancy back in college. The date isn't boring at all. He has always appreciated—loved—Amanda's fabulous sense of humour and her naughty winks and smiles. But his attention is held not by the woman beside him watching the 3D thriller with awe or by the movie itself. He's constantly feeling for his phone. The spell of separation, however brief, really picks at him, like an itch wanting to be scratched.

Sherlock is always so persistent in his efforts with John. A separation of three weeks and suddenly they're talking only once in two days? Is he really that fickle?

No, John shoos those thoughts away. Never for one second does he doubt Sherlock. In fact, he should be ashamed of himself, doubting Sherlock when he himself is set out on a date with her, a date to the cinema, which is always very suggestive, almost like a candlelit dinner.

As the closing credits roll in, John leads Amanda out of the theatre. It's not until they reach near the little cafe in front of the theatre when she speaks up.

"You know what was the most interesting thing about the movie?"

"Hmm?" John tucks his arms behind his back, "Pretty much everything?"

"No, the _most_ interesting thing," she watches him with a little smile, "You weren't interested in it at all."

She eyes the bump in the pocket of his jeans, his phone hidden inside as if a murder weapon, and John covers it self-consciously. His phone is something that he will not allow anyone to see, because it contains the most private bits of him. Something he'd rather not share with anyone.

"You might've been interested in me in uni, but you've grown up, John," she smiles placatingly, and John's heart beats a mile a minute. "And the other lady you are thinking about is very lucky."

John bends his neck, wants to tell her that he doesn't know what she's talking about. But he shakes his head and all that comes out of his mouth is, "Oh, Amanda. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done that to you, I—"

"It's alright," she shrugs, "happens to everyone. Now, go get your girl—or your man."

John's eyes widen. She chuckles.

"I'm joking. You remember jokes? Something to do with funny things?"

John lets out a sigh at that. Great, now she's making fun of him again. She pinches his arm.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm a terrible person, but sometimes I can't help it!"

John shakes his head. She's anything but a terrible person. At any rate, he can't help but wonder about the effect Sherlock has on his girlfriends—or prospective girlfriends—irrespective of whether he is present or not.

* * *

><p>7th January, 2015. 10:39 am<p>

John is seated on his sofa near the window, watching the dull London clouds fly past. The snow that had accumulated on the street last night has long since melted away, London being an urban heat island and all that.

"What are you staring at?" Comes an annoyed voice from his phone. He snaps his head back to it. Sherlock looks funny, fitted into that 5-inch screen. John suppresses his urge to laugh at times.

The duration of the call is over one hour and counting. Sherlock says that this is his brother's phone that he is using, so there's no need to worry about phone credit.

Sometimes, John wonders if Sherlock misses him at all. Not that he expects him to. It's just that—if he had a crush on someone and if they were gone for the holidays, John would definitely miss them for every moment of his day. Sherlock hasn't displayed any that sort of thing, or even let it known to him by explicitly stated words and such.

"Is there anyone around?" John asks, trying to peep behind Sherlock. He doesn't know where his student has gone off running into. Maybe the woods or something like that. Suddenly, John has a powerful temptation to jump into the screen, if only he can reach where Sherlock is, surrounded with miles and miles of silence and beings that will have no problem with them being together. Maybe then, maybe when he's alone with him there, John can do to him everything that he dreams of every night.

John gives himself a mental shake. He really shouldn't think such things.

"Not a soul," Sherlock replies, "I can walk all day and not see a human being for miles. Do you know what would be the only common thing between anyone I meet on my way back?"

"Dunno."

"That person I see would still be an idiot."

John lets out a choked laugh, looking at Sherlock wistfully. Sherlock does not register that look and John is grateful for that.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. Its electronic counterpart rings out in the speakers of John's phone. "It's so tiresome sometimes, John. When I'm here, away from university, I feel so much better. I don't have to deal with things that I don't like. I don't have to ponder over the idiocy of the rest of the world. . . I don't have to pretend about things. . ."

"What things do you have to pretend about?" John asks without thinking, while trying not to dwell over the fact that Sherlock finds it better being away from him. He tries not to think.

"Us. That we're only teacher and student." He looks away at something invisible behind him. John doesn't know whether it's an involuntary action or whether it is to give John a moment. Nevertheless, he takes it, looking down at his sweaty palms. There's so much to say and to deny, things like _no, we're only teacher and student, _or_ there's no us_. He wants to wish Sherlock the best for his step into the twenties of his life, but then he thinks, a professor is not expected to know his students' birthday.

But then Sherlock turns and John waits till he is relieved from the scrutiny.

"Do you expect me to miss you?" He asks John what he had in his mind, previously. John looks alarmed. How could he have possibly known that? He stares at the withered branches of the fig tree behind Sherlock, the one he's sitting on. Sherlock, as it appears, has climbed up a tree and is sitting on a branch, away from people. Away from all the people in the world except for John. For privacy with him.

"Why should I?" John blinks the feeling out of his eyes."At any rate, you're supposed to be studying over the holidays. For improvement. You've got 653 in mid sems, haven't you?"

Sherlock smirks, "What do you expect me to get?"

"Despite Simpson's efforts? Over 680, I think. At any rate, he can't cut much in multiple choice ones, can he?"

"He can, actually," Sherlock sighs."If only he was intelligent to figure out that I can never come to know because I don't ask for my paper at the office."

John nods, childlike delight welling up in him at that.

"As for missing. . . No, I don't miss you, professor." He says, and John tries to remain impassive to it. Is there any point missing Sherlock when he doesn't miss him?

"I don't miss you," he continues, "because I know that you'll be there when I return. We're supposed to miss people when they're gone. I'm not gone."

John clears his throat. Sherlock is not gone. One day, two years later, he will be. It's a mathematical certainty. He will be. Gone, from John's life. Sherlock isn't the sort of guy who will go for masters or higher education. He's the sort of guy who wants to go out into the world, do things that ordinary people aren't capable of.

"Anyway, you're far too fond of me," and here, Sherlock's voice sounds amused, "to let go of me."

John stares at him, unblinkingly for some moments.

"Two more days, John. It's almost over."

There's nothing in his voice, bland and monotonous like it always is, but his eyes are positively glowing, discernible even over the electronically distorted image over the network.

Two more days, John thinks, only two more. And two nights. Wars have begun and ended over a night. Who knows what might happen over the nights of 7th and 8th January.

It's not right. Something's not right.

"Get down from that tree otherwise you might hurt yourself, Mr. Holmes," is all he says.

* * *

><p>7th January, 2015. 11:48 am<p>

John gulps. He is in this deep, for forever. He remembers Sherlock, his eyes. There's no escaping.

John knows. It's not a good thing. Not good at all. Not proper.

* * *

><p>8th January, 2015. 10:12 am<p>

John is wearing his shirt and his jeans. Ties his belt, wears a cardigan all while munching on a toast. The tie has a milk stain on it. John tries not to worry about it. He dabs it with water, but the stain spreads. He groans.

He combs his hair into looking presentable, tucks the little amount of tummy into his trousers and smiles at himself. He has to give over those papers for averaging and for rank calculation and marks etc. He stuffs the bundles of papers into his bag. Closes the door of his flat behind him.

Remembers that he has left his phone charging. Turns the key into the keyhole as fast as he can, barges in and grabs his phone. One message from Sherlock:

**_One more day. SH_**

John blinks and deletes it. He might be excited but he can always pretend that it isn't there. It's not good. It's not proper.

The bus is going to arrive in a couple of minutes, and the elevator will take more than that. He checks his watch. 10:20 am. His left leg is jumping, twitching. He can't rationalise why. He has never been particularly keen about St. Bart's, except for Mondays and Thursdays.

He ruffles through a few papers down the elevator and as he gets out. He pauses to collect a few rogue papers that have fallen from his grasp and fluttered to the ground. He lets out a quiet curse as one drifts out of his grasp, and he chases it to where it landed next to a blue compact car.

A blue compact car with its engine running.

He comes up out of his crouched position and peers through the rolled-down driver's side window, not able to comprehend the sight before him.

"Hello, Professor Watson," Sherlock drawls, wearing the same white shirt and sky blue jeans, the way John likes him the best, his grip on the steering, and John doesn't know the state of his heart, too busy to comprehend it."Mind if we make a little trip?"

John's heart swells. Swells and takes his breath away.

Sherlock always comes back. He'll always come back to John.

* * *

><p><strong>Please review. I'd love to hear your comments :)<strong>


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